


Sense Sickness

by Orianne (morganya)



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: Blindness, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-09-09
Updated: 2002-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-24 12:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/Orianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are always ways to compensate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sense Sickness

The diagnosis came down: retinitis pigmentosa. His retinas were degenerating. The doctors told Colin that it was hereditary; he must not have been aware of his family history. It was supposed to progress slowly; it didn't. There was no treatment for it. He was blind within two years of the diagnosis. He used that two years to rant and rave and throw things at the wall. Sometimes Ryan joined him. After the darkness set in, he stopped screaming and just did his best to adapt.

Ryan had his own ways of helping him adapt.

Colin lay on their bed trying to listen to what Ryan was doing. The only indication that it had begun was when Ryan closed the door to the bedroom. Clinking noises.

"Can I sit up now?"

"In a minute. I'm not ready."

"Right." Colin drummed his hands on his stomach.

"Okay. Sit up and open your mouth."

Colin inclined his head towards the sound of Ryan's voice. "Uh-huh."

"C'mon. I've spent three hours getting this crap ready."

"This is really putting me in the mood, Ryan."

"Aw, pretend to like it. Open up."

"Okay, Mickey Rourke." Colin opened obediently, a baby bird. Ryan chuckled.

"Heh…when you look like that, with your tongue stickin' out…"

Colin shut his mouth. "Eh, screw you." He tried not to laugh.

"Right. Okay. Romantic. Right." Ryan put a hand on Colin's shoulder; Colin opened wide again. "Here, Col."

He could recognize the tastes on his tongue, the shapes in his mouth. Bell pepper, sweet and watery, with a combination of slick waxy skin and soft pulp, acidic orange peel, with its pitted rind, honey's syrupy sweetness, peanut butter with little nut fragments hidden in its thickness. Ryan didn't let him use his hands, just placed them on his tongue silently.

"I'm gonna gain ten kilos from this," Colin said. His mouth tasted of nuts and fruit and honey and salt, overlapping and mingling.

"I guess that's enough," Ryan said. He touched Colin's hand, put what felt like a glass there. "It's just water."

Colin drank, felt the riot of tastes subside. Ryan took the glass away. Colin heard the hiss and sputter of a match, smelled sulphur as it was extinguished. "Are you lighting incense?" Incense was a little more hippie-ish than he expected of Ryan. He'd never been an incense fan anyway; the smoke was always acrid and too thick, clinging to anything it touched.

"God, no. My allergies'd go into overdrive. It's just a candle. Ambience." Colin wanted to point out that the ambience was somewhat lost on him, but whatever helped Ryan set the mood.

"Here." Ryan pressed something soft into his hands. "Smell."

"Is it a sock? I hope it's clean."

Ryan laughed. "No. Jesus."

Colin raised the bundle to his face. It smelled of bay rum and what he thought of as the Ryan scent, warm and dark and musky. "Ryan…"

"Do you trust me?"

"Always."

"Give me your hands."

Colin extended his hands into the dark, palms upturned in supplication. Ryan took the bundle, then wrapped what felt like a silk scarf, fragile and slippery and soft, around his wrists.

Ryan pulled tight; the softness became taut and ungiving. "Lie back, Col."

Colin laid back. Ryan rolled him onto his side. He almost laughed; he felt like an ingredient in some exotic recipe. Roll Colin in pastry. Baste for ten minutes.

Ryan rubbed his back reassuringly. "You've got a knot or something here."

"Slept on it wrong."

Ryan traced the curve of his spine with one finger. "I could look at you forever."

"You just may have to."

Ryan lay down next to him, stroking his forehead. His hands were warm and slightly damp; was he nervous? Ryan always worried about doing the right thing. Colin turned his head, trying to guess the next point where Ryan's hand would be. He had the idea of intercepting him with a kiss on the palm, but Ryan kept him guessing, never remaining still, though his hands never lost their slow rhythm. They'd eaten curry for lunch that day; Ryan's fingers would still have the taste of ginger and coriander imprinted on them. Did he touch the food he'd given Colin? Had the honey coated his fingers, had the orange peel slicked his skin with tart, almost bitter oils? Colin brought his bound hands up to where he thought Ryan was, straining against the silk. It was cutting into his wrists. "Let me out, Ryan."

Ryan stopped stroking his forehead and untied him. He laid the silk across Colin's eyes, chuckling.

"Wiseass," Colin said softly. He could still smell Ryan in the silk, along with the smell of his own cologne, his own skin. The silk was so thin it almost felt like air.

He rolled over, groping for Ryan's waist. "God, Ryan…"

And through it all, he heard Ryan murmuring, "I love you. I love you so much, Colin. I love you, I love you, I love you…"


End file.
